Ruinous
by AlreadyPainfullyGone
Summary: AU Prisoner!Dean in hospital being reluctantly examined by Intern!Cas. Warning, mentions of past abuse  sexual and physical , character death, some scenes that some may find disturbing, mental scars, terminal illness.
1. Chapter 1

Castiel opens the door to the new patients room. The guards standing either side of the door have thrown him off a little, but after all he's here to do a job, and that job was never the same twice, not in this hospital.

Besides, how dangerous could a man handcuffed to the bed be?

As the door closes behind him Castiel has to do a double take, he'd expected a death row inmate to be lean and pale from lack of sun and poor food. He'd expected a pinched and evil face and lank, colourless and greasy hair.

The only thing he got right were the orange overalls.

"Hey doc." The man grins, hips shifting uncomfortably on the bed, his strong wrists twitching in their steel bracelets, the chain clicking on the metal runners at the side of the bed. "So, what's on the menu today?"

Castiel stands, frozen in his blue scrubs, looking at the man on the bed.

The larger, stronger man in the prison uniform.

He's kind of wishing he'd brought a guard in with him.

"Relax doc, I only ever killed three people and none of 'em were doctors."

Castiel looks the man in the eye and the prisoner winks lasciviously, a smirk decorating his almost prettily feminine features.

"Um...Mr Winchester."

"Dean." The guy stretches again, stubbornly developed muscles shifting under his clothes. "I hear too much 'Winchester' where I'm from."

Castiel flips over the chart and tries to ignore the shaking in his hands. He's alone in a room with a multiple murderer, he just needs to get this over with and get out.

"You're kinda nervous huh?" Dean drawls. "You don't have to be." He smirks. "I'm really affable, kind of a peoples prisoner...'specially with doctors as pretty as you."

Castiel swallows the lump in his throat. "Your...uh...your CT and MRI were clear...the attending cleared you to go back to..."

"Prison." Dean licks his lips. "You can say it, I kind of figured they wouldn't just let me out." He laughs to himself and Castiel flinches.

"Well...I'm going to do one last...um...physical and...then you'll be able to go."

"Free as a bird huh?" Dean rakes his eyes over him again and sighs. "Awesome." He quirks an eyebrow. "Any chance of you throwing in some extras with the physical?"

Cas blinks.

"Don't freak, I was kidding." Dean sighs. "Get on with it."

Castiel checks his blood pressure and then undoes the top of the orange overall to listen to Dean's heart with his stethoscope. Dean flinches at the coldness of the steel, outright jumping when Castiel jerks in response to the sudden movement and presses the chilled steel to Dean's right nipple. The man on the bed grits his teeth and sighs unsteadily.

"Sorry." Castiel mutters, withdrawing the instrument and breathing on it before returning it to Dean's chest.

"Not a problem." Dean hoods his eyes and watches Castiel's intent face, the doctor flushes under his scrutiny. "This is actually the most action I've gotten in...oh, five years?"

Cas's fingers trace the broad expanse of Dean's chest, feeling the place where Dean's cracked rib has healed. "It seems fine." He breathes.

"I'm more than fine." Dean looks up at him and Castiel can smell the talc and chemical smell of Dean's clothing and skin. He frowns.

"It's like disinfectant." Dean murmurs. "For for lice and crap like that...sexy huh?" His eyes have hardened when Castiel looks into them again.

"A patient's bowel exploded on me this morning." Castiel mutters. "I'm not so sensitive."

"Good to know."

"Could you look straight ahead please?" Castiel shines a light into Dean's eyes and checks that they move and dilate correctly. He glances down and notices the long scars trailing down Dean's abdomen. Without thinking he lays his hand there, Dean's flesh contracts, the muscles clenching.

"You're colder than that thing." He nods at the stethoscope with a hiss.

"Sorry..." Castiel attempts to move his hand back, but Dean's hand closing around his other wrist stops him. Dean is still handcuffed, but holding the hand that isn't currently resting on his stomach.

""Beautiful aren't they?" Dean frowns down at himself. "My Dad, great guy."

"Did you kill him?" the words spill out before he can stop them, and really he should be shouting for help, because a killer has hold of him.

"And my Mom...and my brother." Dean looks at him unblinkingly.

Castiel's fingers rub over the scars and Dean sighs, stretching like an overfed cat.

"They're putting me down...in a week." Dean murmurs.

Castiel looks at him, eyes round and innocent and so blue that Dean can't help but flinch. He releases the doctor's wrist.

"So finish up, I've got a lot to get back to in solitary." He mutters.

Castiel backs away a little.

"Turn on your side please..." he registers the all in one uniform, they've left Dean in it to prevent him blending in if he should escape, but it's going to hamper his work. "I need to uh...I need you to undress."

"Just cut it." Dean sighs, not even looking at him. "They'll just stick me in a new one."

He rolls onto his side and Castiel uses a pair of scissors to cut the jumpsuit from the small of the larger man's back, right down to his thighs, he parts the fabric and slides the underwear underneath down as far as it'll go.

"This might be a little uncomfortable." He murmurs, squeezing clear jelly onto his gloved fingers.

"What part of, I've been in prison escapes your...ugh..." Dean winces as the slick, cold finger worms its way into him. "Well, there goes the last of my dignity." He murmurs.

Castiel feels his apology wither and die on his lips.

Dean's legs part a little further and he grunts at the deeper pressure. Castiel fixes his eyes on the wall.

"Ok, now can you..."

Dean's moan is like a gunshot into the silence, low and gruff and helpless. Castiel's fingers jerk of their own volition and another sound of involuntary pleasure escapes the man on the bed.

"I'm sorry...I..." Castiel stammers, making to remove his hand, a blood rich flush rising all over his body.

"If you stop...I will kill you..." Dean pants, and Castiel freezes, unsure if it's an idle threat or a promise. Dean wriggles against his finger and then rubs against the thin mattress, groin rutting against the surplus of sheet and orange canvas. "Fuck, that's good." He rumbles, eyes slipping shut as he works himself between the mattress and Castiel's frozen hand. Dean makes a soft, frustrated sound. "More."

Castiel remains frozen and Dean clenches around him needily.

"I'm dying in a week..." Dean pants. "Put your damn hands on me."

Castiel's body jumps into motion before his mind can fully catch up. Dean growls as another latex covered finger slides into his body, Castiel's other hand reaching around to cup the bulge in his overalls firmly. Dean's head thrashes on the thin pillow as another finger makes its home in him, a dull, reverberating heat spreading through him. His hands rattle at their restraints, one stretching out and managing to grasp the top of Cas's thigh as he leans over his patient. The contact only makes his skin burn hotter, his fingers steadily fucking the bound man into the bed even as Dean curls on his side and mewls unrestrainedly.

Castiel pushes his fingers as deeply as he can, groping and rubbing inside, his other hand massaging the leaking hardness hidden by layers of cloth. Dean's hips jerk abortively and he gasps upwards.

"Oh...f-uck."

Castiel's body leans against his as the doctor presses closer automatically, the hand groping Cas's thigh slides between his legs, fingering his ass and between his legs before finding his crotch and rubbing, quickly and roughly, until Castiel is bucking into the hot palm and shoving his fingers deep into Dean in time with its movements.

They shudder, coming apart within seconds of each other, Dean cursing and thrashing, Castiel going still as a statue, then arching as if struck by lightning.

Dean is left half naked and exposed on the bed, Castiel with a wet spot on the front of his scrubs. Dean buries his face into the pillow and sighs, eyes slipping closed. Castiel covers him back up with the slashed overalls and Dean turns onto his back, a pronounced damp patch on the front of his prison clothes.

"Thanks doc." Dean rasps.

"Castiel." He says, then, licking his dry lips he bends down and kisses Dean quickly on the mouth. Dean kisses back, hungry for any kind of attention, his tongue slicking against Cas's intimately. They part and Dean watches him like a caged animal, for the moment harmless but with a killers ferocity.

"If I wasn't tied down...I would ruin you." Dean rumbles, and Castiel wonders why he feels anything but fear at those words.

Castiel tells his attending that Dean is fit to go back to prison. The guards assemble, the protocol is followed to the letter as the armoured vehicle is brought around to the ambulance bay.

When Dean escapes, Castiel is surprised at how unsurprised he feels.

When he goes down to his car at the end of the shift and finds a piece of paper under the wiper he's a little more curious than concerned, it says simply 'Thanks again.' And Castiel folds it and puts it in his pocket before heading home. Once there he makes himself dinner and pours a glass of wine, fingering the note as his microwave meal turns on its plate in the microwave.

It's only then that he notices the script on the reverse of the note.

"Be seeing you."


	2. Chapter 2

_Me and Mine is now a novel!_

_Plans are to make the eBook available for a tiny price, under a pound, if that, and the money will go towards funding my Masters in Creative Writing - hopefully enabling me to become a better writer and to produce more fiction._

_More details will be posted in around a week when the book goes live, however, here is a taste of the start of chapter one - part of the second to last draft which I'm currently doing final checks on._

_You can follow me at JollySnidge on twitter for more updates on the novel._

Castiel turns the TV on while he eats, the note on the coffee table in front of him. He feels a slight stab of fear every time he looks at it. A killer, one whom could see him as having abused him earlier, could right this minute be after him. He has no idea how Dean now thinks of what they'd done, how warped or changed the encounter might have become in the other man's mind.

He goes into his bedroom and takes off his clothes, padding naked to the bathroom and stepping into the glass shower cubicle. The water is hot and soothing, and it helps to unravel the panic in him. He lathers his skin, hands sliding lower to erase the memory of Dean's touch, of the scars on his skin.

Naked and wrapped in steam he dries off and goes back into his bedroom, sliding into some cotton pants.

He puts the chain across the front door and checks that all the windows are locked before he turns in, falling asleep quickly and completely.

The scent of burning wakes him up, a couple of hours later.

He blinks awake to find that the television in the corner of his living room is still on, visible through the open bedroom door and showing a documentary about angler fish. Castiel inhales sleepily and detects a whiff of smoke, dragging himself into wakefulness he feels a dart of panic.

The documentary changes to a talk show.

Castiel sits up awkwardly, his arms stiff and unresponsive. He frowns at the TV.

It changes from a talk show to one of the porn channels, a blond woman shrieks as she pogos on top of an unseen man.

Castiel tries to get up and finds that his hands are handcuffed to the headboard. He struggles, heart pounding suddenly, and the scent of smoke intensifying, filling his lungs.

The porn changes to a news report.

"_...still at large, the police are asking anyone who encounters the escapee to be extremely wary, citing him as 'unstable' and likely to be highly desperate. Dean Winchester was imprisoned for the triple murder of his parents and younger brother, and was due to be executed..."_

The channel changes to a sports broadcast, there's the sound of a low laugh from the living room. The tip of a cigarette glows cherry red in the dark.

Castiel inches up against the headboard.

"Dean?" he says quietly, and instantly curses himself.

The cigarette disappears and bare footsteps pad towards him, Castiel swallows dryly, skin tight and cold with fear.

"Hey Cas." Dean appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame, somehow larger than he had seemed whilst tied down. He raises the cigarette and inhales, the flare of light dispelling the shadows and lighting up his face. He sighs, a hiss of pleasure in it. "I helped myself, sorry."

He comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, producing the crumpled pack of Mayfair from the pocket of his sweat pants. Or rather, Castiel notes as he looks at him, eyes wide in rabbit fear, his own sweat pants – Dean is wearing the oversized sweats, just barely fitting him, and no shirt.

"Smoking, in your line of work?" Dean tisks. "Setting a bad example."

"When I get stressed..." Castiel begins, then stops himself.

"Are you stressed now?" Dean asks lightly.

Castiel nods slowly.

Dean takes a thin paper tube from the pack and comes around to the side of the bed to place it between his dry lips. Dean holds up the plastic bic lighter and strikes a flame to the end of the cigarette. Castiel can almost hear the paper crackle as the flame is sucked into the dry leaves, the silence is so absolute. Dean releases the lighter and wanders to the side of the room, inspecting the pictures and the chair laden with dirty clothes.

"I figured you'd be a clean freak." He says conversationally. He picks up a tumbler that he'd presumably brought into the room with him, draining it deftly. Castiel recognised the twenty year old whisky he'd bought himself for his birthday.

Dean licks his lips and sits on the corner of the bed.

"Sorry about..." he gestures to the handcuffs, the steel ones that had bound him at the hospital. "I didn't know how you'd react." He takes the cigarette from Cas's mouth and finishes it himself.

"How did you get in?" Castiel asks softly.

"You thought a window lock was going to keep me out?" Dean's smile is indulgent rather than predatory. He leans over Castiel's bed, closer to the man bunched up by the headboard. "I was here before you were baby."

Castiel's eyes widen as he remembers walking naked through his apartment, going about his routine as usual.

Dean smiles at the realisation in Castiel's eyes.

"Quite a show. Made it hard to stay where I was."

"Where were you?" Castiel asks, his voice sticking in his throat.

Dean pats the bed. "Underneath." He murmurs. "I know a lot about hiding."

Castiel frowns at that.

"I helped myself to some food while you were asleep, hope you don't mind." Dean mutters. "Coffee, whisky...watched some TV..." He stretches a little. "I'd forgotten what it felt like, living on the outside."

He touches Castiel's bare chest lightly, and the bound man wonders if that is what this is, what he is – another perk of freedom. Food, booze, smokes and sex. The last hurrah. He shivers.

Dean withdraws his hand with a frown, reaching up to cup Castiel's face, fingers stroking the hair by his temple.

"Hey..." he says softly. "Don't be scared."

Castiel looks at him, feeling his pulse beat fast in his throat. "You tied me up."

"I said sorry." Dean tips his head forwards and kisses him lightly, Castiel's mouth is warm and unresisting, though unresponsive. "I don't want you to be scared..." His breath is warm on Castiel's face, smelling of smoke and expensive whisky. When he kisses him again Castiel breaks against him, kissing back, slow and deep. Dean hums in surprise, hand sliding from Castiel's face, down his chest to settle on his hip.

Castiel's arms ache in their cuffs, but the pain is dulled as Dean's mouth falls to his fluttering pulse, then on down his throat and chest, teeth nipping and hot breath painting his skin warm and shivery. Castiel gasps towards the ceiling, the ceiling with its spider webbing cracks that he has memorised on all the nights he's spent pleasuring himself here, alone. His hands rattle the cuffs as he arches into Dean's hungry mouth.

Dean smirks as he slides lower, mouth embracing circular bites of skin and lavishing attention on them. His lips reach the waistband of Castiel's pyjama pants and he nuzzles the trail of dark hair above the elastic. Castiel whimpers, eyes opening to behold the ceiling in rapture. He licks his lips as Dean pulls the cotton pants down.

Castiel's hips are thin, made scrawny by consuming coffee and little else whilst doing too much work. Dean scraps his teeth over their sharp edges, hands jerking the thin fabric down Castiel's legs and off onto the floor before licking and nibbling his way back up to the top of his thighs. Castiel's legs fall open and he arches under Dean's touch until the larger man backs up, kneeling over him and smirking.

Castiel looks up at him, breathless, fear and desire warring for his attention.

Dean's hands embrace the sharp hips lightly; he dips down in one sinuous movement, mouth claiming the rise of Castiel's flushed cock and slipping over it easily.

Castiel's hips rise up and he throws his head back, moaning extravagantly, because having all that heat, all that wet, around him and yet not being able to curl his fingers into Dean's hair and force him closer, not having anything to hang on to? Is the best, and most exquisite torture.

Dean revels in the shaky gasps and panted expletives, entreaties and pleas from the man spread out underneath him. The slide of Castiel's pale skin on the dark sheets is beautiful, the taste of him, clean and slightly cottony, edged in salt – by far the best delicacy Dean has yet experienced in his new found freedom.

Only when Castiel begins to struggle, hands clasping at the air, shaking thighs spreading, feet digging into the mattress and his mouth emitting wonderfully deep, rhythmic groans as he lifts his hips, dragging his weeping cock head through Dean's lips over and over again, his release clearly building – does Dean pull away.

He pants as he watches the bound man buck at nothing, a whimper caught in his throat, his body strung tight and yet loose with anticipation, inviting and hot. Dean strokes Castiel's thighs and the other man looks at him, eyes hazy and aroused, yet still that slight sliver of fear.

Dean leans up and kisses him, feeling Castiel's entire body rise up off of the bed, pressing against his own completely, shuddering and rubbing a little, aching for release. He lets himself relish the taste of the other man's mouth, the feel of it and the hunger there before he pulls away. Dean opens the drawer in the side table by the bed and removes the half empty tube of lubricant he'd seen there when he searched the room earlier, curious as to Castiel's life away from the hospital. Castiel makes a sound like a greedy gulp upon seeing it, lying back with his legs open amicably.

Dean shuffles back and removes the borrowed sweats quickly, not missing the gasp that escapes the bound doctor at the sight of him.

The scars on his abdomen are the least of the damage that John left him with. Dean has little cigarette burns on his hips, more on the tender flesh between his legs, scars on the fronts of his thighs from his father's belt. A bite mark on the side of his leg.

He feels self-conscious of these marks now, a Frankenstein's monster of torn tissue with the hands of a killer, the stink of prison still on him. He freezes there, until Castiel's foot rubs against his thigh, the dry, warm sole massaging the flesh like a cat pawing a cushion. Dean lays over the man and their warm skin connects, comforting and sensuous. Castiel's breath comes rough and uneven.

"I know." Dean whispers. "I know...but I told you remember?" He whispers close to Castiel's ear. "I'm going to ruin you."

Castiel arches up and Dean kisses his way back down his chest, parting his thighs with his hands, roughened from doing pull-ups to the sill on his cells one window. The lube is scented, which makes him huff a disbelieving laugh, the finer things in life – whisky, smokes and citrus lube. Nicer than the hospital stuff Castiel had used on him. Far better than what he'd gotten inside – spit and cooking grease, if he got anything at all.

Castiel parts almost gracefully to the first finger, sighing and arching slowly to push it further inside.

Dean leans on his other hand, watching Castiel lazily as he writhes on the bed.

"You're so perfect." He breathes. He kisses the inside of Castiel's thigh tenderly, and Cas wishes he could touch Dean's hair, trace his jaw gently. He whines and the cuffs jangle as he moves his hands.

"Later." Dean promises. "Later you can touch me."

Castiel barely stifles a moan at the second finger, and now Dean kisses his pristine abdomen, the creamy skin almost glowing in the shadow, the sheets crinkling around him like the paper around a fancy bottle of boxed scent. It's a memory from his parent's room and he brushes it aside angrily. Not here. Not now, with the warm and welcoming body in front of him, offering up, if not love, then at least want, trust and compassion.

He slides another finger into Castiel, feeling the stretch around it like a rubber band, like an open wound.

Castiel thrusts down hard and twists his head to one side, against his extended bicep.

Dean licks across his sharp hipbone and listens to Castiel sigh at the touch.

"Ready?" he asks, and the bound man nods his head, looking at him without any trace of fear left, like a small animal soothed with a light caress and a kind hand offering food. Dean is glad, unlike many he's met in and out of prison – he does not find fear in the least bit arousing. Fear, he learnt the hard way, was something that was done to you – not something that was shared between partners.

Castiel wraps his hands in the handcuff chains as Dean spreads his legs apart, lifting them around his waist. At the first push inwards, Castiel pulls on the chains, back arching as he pushes against Dean, his own cock heavy with blood and resting on his stomach.

Dean slides home with a groan, everything slick and hot around him, Castiel's body practically swallowing him down.

Castiel struggles unthinkingly at the chains, his mind only concerned with the feeling of being full, and close to someone else, finally, and not being able to lie still as it happens. If he stays still, as the thick tip of Dean presses into the nerve centre of him, he will go mad, he's certain.

One of Dean's hands grasps Castiel's thigh, the other balancing him, and the details of the room, of the bed, even the colour of the sheets fades from his mind and all there is, is the feeling of being inside of Castiel, of having all that soft, warm flesh bared for him like his last meal.

He leans down and bites lightly at Castiel's nipple, feeling the body underneath him jolt, a sharp cry of pleasure leaving Cas's mouth.

Dean's thrusts build momentum, and his promises of ruin look set to come true. Castiel feels fucked apart, utterly and completely loose and impossibly deep. With his arms chained to the headboard he can do little else but push his ass against Dean's hips and groan at each press to his prostate – which feels more like a punch than a touch. It's glorious, like mainlining pleasure straight into his veins.

Castiel's arms thrash, chains catching desperately as Dean pummels his insides, the other man's eyes almost closed and his mouth slightly open, drawing desperate breath as he sprints at the cliff and dashes himself into his orgasm like a suicide on the rocks.

He thrusts through it, feeling himself spill oh so copiously as Castiel wriggles under him, body long and tense as a bow string. Come is forced from Castiel's entrance as Dean pushes in, trickling hot and quick down Cas's ass and over the back of his thigh. By the time Dean stops, spent and tired and thrumming with aftershocks, Castiel has spilled over his own stomach, stripes long enough to paint across his navel and up to his chest. Both sticky wet with it, they part, and Dean rolls onto his side next to Castiel, petting Cas's heaving abdomen and running his fingers lovingly through the thick trails there.

Castiel is still panting, too tired to even move his legs, the place between them so abused that he can't find it in him to close them.

"Dean..." he turns his head limply to look at the other man. "Untie me." he croaks.

Dean takes the key from the side table instantly and unlocks both sets of handcuffs. The rush of blood into his arms as he lowers them is like a drug, euphoric and sudden. Dean bundles him up in his arms as soon as he's free and Castiel strokes his skin, touches every inch of him, finally.

They press together, warm and comfortable.

"Give me fifteen, and we'll go again." Dean kisses the top of Castiel's head, inhaling the scent of sweat and mint shower soap on him. "God that was good."

Castiel hums his agreement.

"It didn't hurt?" Dean asks, a wrinkle of concern on his face.

"Mmm...no." Castiel can't find an ounce of strength in his body, but he feels more of a well sated ache then actual pain.

Dean reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the side table and lights one, passing it to Castiel once he's taken a drag.

They lie in silence for a while, sharing smoke, listening to the distant sound of the football game on the TV.

"You never asked me why I did it." Dean murmurs. "That's what made me like you, at the hospital."

"You don't have to tell me." Castiel whispers.

"I want to, if that's ok...I don't want you to be afraid of me." Dean takes the fact that Castiel moves closer to him as a sign of assent.

"My Dad...well, you know what he did, it's pretty obvious. But my Mom...she knew it was happening, and she still...she stayed with him, pretended it wasn't happening, even when he started in on Sam. Sammy was my little brother, and he was...well, everything I wasn't; good, smart, friendly. I was kind of a nightmare kid. And I guess my Dad thought he was better too..." Dean strokes Castiel's hair when the other man tenses. "He wanted him, not to hurt but...the other way. For a while, I even thought it was me, that maybe the whole reason he hated me was because I wasn't what he wanted...I kind of hated Sam, for a while. Then...Sam came to be and he asked me if I could get Dad to stop it. I guess then I realised he was just a kid, like I was before...it wasn't his fault, it was Dad, and Mom."

"Is that when..." Castiel's voice trails off.

"I stabbed my Dad." Dean says quietly. "I wish I hadn't...just remembering is like a nightmare I can't get out of...but back then I thought he deserved it like that. Painful. I shot my Mom in the heart, it's quicker that way and she'd never hurt me herself, you know? But Sammy..."

"Why kill him?" Castiel asks softly.

"He couldn't have lived with it – with what my Dad did." Dean murmurs. "It broke him, being used like that, and I knew eventually he'd do something to stop feeling like that. Foster care? Growing up with what had happened? He'd never have lasted." At Castiel's confused look he looks down and says softly. "Suicide's a sin Cas...I didn't want Sammy to go to hell."

"Murder's a sin too." Castiel whispers, touching Dean's face gently.

"I know." Dean lies back on the bed. "Better me than him. That's what big brothers are for right? They're supposed to protect you." He wraps his arm around Castiel when the other man rests against his chest. "I smothered him in his sleep. Couple of sleeping tablets in his hot milk...I don't think he felt anything."

Castiel closes his eyes, but the tears get out anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hope you enjoy the last part of this. I had no idea this was where it was going...I just thought it would be porn._

_Me and Mine is now a novel! Available in the Kindle store. There's a link in my profile._

_You can follow me at JollySnidge on twitter for more updates._

Dean and Castiel cat nap peacefully for an hour, wake and slide seamlessly into making love, for that's what it is. Castiel can feel the focus, the bound up emotion in Dean, like a heart wrapped in barbed wire – painfully tender. For his part, Castiel offers himself up like a balm for every wound, like a warm bed after decades of torture. Castiel feeds on the intense emotion, the passion rolling off of the other man, offering up everything, all he has in return – the compassion, the love, that no one else has ever wanted, and of which he has saved an unlimited supply.

Afterwards Castiel lies quietly underneath him, hand stroking Dean's tarnished gold hair where the other man's head lies on his chest. Sweat cools on their bodies, Dean's back aches and Castiel is sore physically and at the heart of him, thanks to what Dean has told him.

He can see Dean, younger, smaller, his scars still red rather that silvery – walking into his brother's room holding a steaming cup. Sam, who Castiel cannot imagine, and for whom his subconscious substitutes a five year old sexual assault case he'd tended a few months ago, is sitting on the bottom bed of a bunk – red and blue spaceship sheets, a stuffed bear with a pair of red shoes on, hanging mobile of stars under the box spring of the top bunk – the stray thought that _'Daddy always hits his head on it'_ makes Castiel cringe even as he holds the sleeping man.

Dean, who presented the drugged milk to his brother, waited...waited.

Watched Sam yawn and doze, lowered him to the bed.

Took the pillow, blue with mars and a space dog printed on the faded cotton. (A set Castiel's best friend had owned at school) puts the pillow over his brother's sleeping face – small features innocently contracted in sleep, breath soft and snuffly.

Snuffed out.

Dean holds his breath as he does it.

In his own dark bedroom, Castiel holds the other man close, vows that Dean will never be alone that way again.

From here they go forwards together.

_Dean dreams of his Father, of the glowing cherry of his cigarette end, coming towards the pale flesh between his legs, burning before it even touches. Begging him to stop, please – that he doesn't know what he did but he'll do better he promises Dad please..._

_Then Sammy crying, curled around his stuffed dinosaur and asking Dean to please, please make Dad stop hurting him – please?_

_Somehow it's the right time, doesn't know how he chose it but –now, it has to be NOW. He has to save Sam, stop Dad...and Mom. _

_Knife from under his pillow, goes into his parent's room. His dad still sleeping though it's morning. Working the night shift. _

_Then there's blood all over his hands._

_Fingers slippery on the gun he can't remember going for, his mother in the kitchen doing the dishes in her white nightgown. _

"_Dean you should get ready for school."_

_Because it's morning and his bagged lunch is ready on the counter. _

_The sound of the shot bounces off of the walls, red floods the basin, soaks the white cloth as his mother falls. _

_Sammy isn't fully up yet, won't be, he doesn't have to be at school till an hour after Dean leaves. _

_Dean washes his hands in the bathroom. Heats milk, tests, adds cold so Sam's mouth doesn't burn. _

_The microwave glass is drizzled pinkish. _

_Pops the tablets, five, from the silver pack. Crushes, sprinkles. _

_It's so quiet._

_Takes the milk in, tells Sam it's ok, they have the day off._

"_Why?"_

"_Mom and Dad are taking us out."_

"_Where?"_

"_Somewhere good,...I promise." _

_Asks him if Dad is going to touch him, small voice pleading._

"_No Sammy, he won't." _

_Then small arms hugging him, Dean hugs back, breathes in toffee and crayon wax. _

_Sam sleeps._

_Then sleeps always._

_Dean goes into the kitchen, looks at the bag lunch, the morning light at the window, mail unopened on the table. Blood trails from his parents room to the kitchen._

_Sam's room is clean._

_There's a pack of cigarettes on the kitchen counter. He can almost smell the tobacco._

_Only then does Dean go down on his knees. _

_He vomits acid and spittle until there's nothing left. _

Dean starts, twitching in his sleep like a beaten dog. Castiel's hands on him are soft and confident the hands of a doctor, of a man who has never hit, burnt, slapped, punched, choked...he's cared for kids like Sam – he would have known what to do, for Sam.

Dean holds on to him, the warm silk of him. Castiel murmurs softly, kisses him, and the phantom blood, toffee and smoke scent drifts away. He can smell Castiel's cigarettes, a different brand – his skin, his whiskey, their sex.

In one shuddery moment he's back in the present.

"I don't want you to die." Castiel whispers.

"I deserve it." Dean murmurs, still able to hear Sam's kittenish cries through the wall while he watched the TV unseeing, waiting for his mother to get home, knowing it wouldn't stop when she did. A fresh burn on his thigh. Blood in Sam's underwear. Two sides of the same blank door to the bedroom - lust and disgust.

"You deserve everything...but not that." Castiel kisses the bite mark on Dean's skin. "I want you to be safe...not locked up in a cell, waiting to die."

Dean sits up, hunches in on himself.

"I've been waiting to die since I was six." He says blankly.

"Well I'm here now." Castiel wraps his arms around Dean.

Dean has waited for those words, wanted his mother, as he lay on his bed – six years old and bleeding from twenty three whip marks on his back. He'd wanted her to come into the room, take him away from his suddenly unsafe father – tell him it was ok, she was there now.

Now Castiel wants to take care of him.

"We could go somewhere." Castiel whispers.

"There's nowhere they won't find us." Dean tells him. "We could run, and they would catch us – I'd be executed, and they'd put you in a cell for life."

"I don't want you to be on that table, alone, when they pump you full of poison and watch from behind the glass." Castiel buries his face in the nape of Dean's neck. "You deserve more – you're too good a man to die like that."

Dean has never been told that before.

They're silent for a long time, trapped like rats in their situation, they have only now – immediate and desperate as a knife edge.

"Can I do it here?" Dean asks.

Castiel goes still.

"I don't want to be alone...can you be here...while I..." Dean touches him gently. "I was so gentle with Sam...and I...I want that to be how I go."

Castiel looks at him, wondering how his job had unspooled into this, the desperate love he feels for a man he barely knows.

"Can I show you something?" he asks Dean.

The larger man nods, Castiel gets off of the bed, naked, he walks across the room and opens a box on his dresser. He brings it back to Dean, inside are two orange prescription bottles and a folded piece of paper.

"What is this?" Dean asks, but he knows, and his throat sticks.

Castiel looks at the pills, sleeping tablets and a powerful painkiller.

"I have Huntingtons." He says, looking up and catching Dean in the eye, the familiar despair with himself overwhelming him. "It's...genetic, it causes...uh...personality disorders, loss of muscle control and memory loss, dementia..." He clenches his pale fingers nervously. "It presented...really early, in me. By the time I'm forty...I'll be a wreck." He licks his dry lips. "My family is Catholic, they don't know that I'm gay...and when I get so bad that I can't..." His voice catches and he frowns. "That I can't...remember who I am – they won't let me die – they'll keep me alive."

"You were going to kill yourself." Dean looks mortally upset.

"I didn't want to...fade, like that. All alone." He picks up the bottle. "I've had them...for months, just waiting. I thought – when something good next happens, I'll do it. A good day, successful surgery...cute guy asks for my number, and I'll come home and do it. End on a high note." He touches Dean's face. "You're the first high note in years."

"Suicide..." Dean looks fearful and desperate, on the edge of some terrible abyss. "It means you'll go to hell."

"I think maybe He'll understand." Castiel feels a tear roll down his face. "Besides...I already broke His law by falling for you."

They make love again, slowly, sensuously, tears falling and salting them both. Then they shower in soap that smells like thyme and figs.

Together they heat the milk on the stove. Castiel shows Dean how to add nutmeg to ease the way into sleep, a children's drink. They add whisky and maple syrup to hide the bitter taste of the pills.

Dean changes the sheets on the bed, writes his own note to accompany Castiel's:

_Mom, Dad – I'm sorry but I had to do this, at least this way I can remember what I'm leaving behind. I'm sorry you will find me like this, but this is how I wanted to spend my last night alive – I cannot afford to think about how I will seem in death._

_I will love you, always._

_Castiel._

_**I've said my goodbyes, now you can stop looking for me and look for the kids like my brother – the ones who need help. The one's who need someone to be there for them, now. **_

Naked, wrapped only in a clean white sheet, they drink their steaming cups dry.

Dean lies down, holds Castiel in the circle of his arms, washed and clean and warm. Castiel holds him in return, breathing nutmeg scented breath onto his skin. In each touch a silent declaration of love, though they say it aloud, as their eyes close.

When they sleep, they sleep together.


End file.
